


The Tragedy of Fenina Pyrope

by Mogseltof



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alien anatomy, F/M, Kismesis, Minor Violence, Pitch relationship, mentions of offscreen torture/death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-23
Updated: 2015-03-23
Packaged: 2018-03-19 06:40:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3600063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mogseltof/pseuds/Mogseltof
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neophyte Legislacerator Redglare is stern of spine, morals, and judgement. The Grand Highblood takes umbrage, and then interest in her due to these reasons. She walks a dangerous line, as she is plunged deeper into matters of growing concern.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tragedy of Fenina Pyrope

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheCreatureFromBeyond](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCreatureFromBeyond/gifts).



_“BEING the faithful record of the memories of the Neophyte Redglare - transcribed from the memories of her lusus upon the event of its death, by its then charge, the late Fenina Pyrope (culled at 8.4 sweeps for the dissemination of information regarding a known traitor to the glorious Empire of Alternia, and the rule of Her Imperial Condescension).”_

*           *           *

IT IS incredibly rare for a subjuggalator find a boundary within our society that even _they_ are not permitted to cross. His Honourable Tyranny however, is nothing if not completely objective. The juggalo in question was young and foolish (in a less than “mirthful” sense, of course), and had attempted to evade a drone outside of the official channels. Justice was swift.

The Grand Highblood, head of the Church of the Mirthful Messiahs, left hand troll to the Empress herself, took the pervasively common belief that that any rumours of so-called “objectivity” are a low-blooded fairy tale that needed to be culled with extreme prejudice. In short he disagreed. In all honesty, I myself take particular exception to those who believe that something as petty and ridiculous as blood caste or chosen profession puts them outside the law.

The stories of the Highblood painted an incredibly specific picture - a gibbering mess of rage, frothing at the mouth, spouting constant religious dogma with spontaneous bursts of extreme violence and loud cursing. My initial impression, as a troll finely tuned to detect other troll’s internal demeanours, and indeed, was that of a coiled spring. There was no denying that he cut an impressive figure though; he easily outstrips all of my landdwelling colleagues in terms of physical stature.

By all rights, and the terms of our godforsaken caste system, my own midblood status should have had me at his feet in an instance, praying that he didn’t decide my particular shade of teal should join the decorations of his holy vestments. Fortunately for me, this instance falls into a particular set of circumstances where I am wholly permitted to stand my ground with law at my back.

It’s interesting to realise how he managed to make the air in my office noticeably thicken — a useful trick no doubt, to instil a sense of religious propriety into the masses. It merely strengthened my faith in my convictions—and my conviction. He knows I acted rightly, and in coming to me directly he sought to bully me into recanting my verdict and submitting to a merciless death at his hands. He _knows_ he has no case against me with His Honourable Tyranny, and no idea that I will make him pay his own dues. In triplicate. A troll of his standing should not require such a reminder of his position in the unseeing face of the judicial drones.

I shall take a great deal of pleasure in reasserting his position as such.

He addressed me, deep and mocking, a deliberate insult to initiate our dialogue — I could nearly _taste_ his patronising tone — “Neophyte,” he began, steeped in his wrong-footed self righteousness. “I believe I do not have to remind a well educated sister of this system, of what happens to a… _sister_ when they step beyond their rightful standing room, do I?”

I could feel my spine locking into place automatically, and I very nearly entered the frame of mind i use to crack particularly stubborn subjects of interrogation. “Considering the terms of my employment,” I said, standing behind my desk to match him, sure to meet his eyes with my own, shield though they may have been, “I should hope so. I trust you require no reminder yourself as a… brother, to this system, particularly in light of recent events.” I paused, several beats too long, showing my opinion of the whole situation with a healthy dose of insolence, before adding; “My lord Highblood.” If he was going to insult me by showing himself here to challenge a judgement passed, then he was going to learn that a legislacerator would not buckle so easily.

The Grand Highblood, the Lord of Mirth and Terror in our glorious Empire, tried to loom impressively over me, but the effect was stunted somewhat by the dimensions of my office—built specifically for a short-statured teal blood such as myself. The baleful glare was mildly imposing, I suppose. “The light cast by _recent events_ is exactly why a motherfucker might be concerned for a sister’s education.”

It felt as though the temperature in my office dropped several degrees at once. A shame for him my caste is not a warmer one; then I might actually have been discomfited in some manner. I straightened myself and let a self satisfied grin work its way across my face. “Are you saying you have seen a discrepancy in my work, Highblood?” I asked, in what I hope was an irritatingly oblivious and cheerful tone. I steamrollered onwards before he could open his mouth. “I mean, I could never _doubt_ someone of your standing, of course - so I can only assume you are here as an, uh, well… _emissary_ , I suppose, of His Honourable Tyranny, to inform me of my mishap.” I let credulous doubt creep into my tone, playing the fool as it were.

Neither of us were pretending I was being anything but deliberately insulting. The Highblood, if possible, seemed even stiller. I knew that if he went for his strife specibus I would not see it. He smiled at me, not a manic one filled with rage and terror, but slow, almost secretive. “And if I motherfucking am here for that purpose?”

I swear to the Empress’ glorious _rack_ my blood pusher nearly stopped, if you’ll excuse the crude turn of phrase. He had a smirk lurking on his lips, at which point I realised my own grin had turned to a rictus. I forced myself to relax, with great difficulty for some reason, dropping the grin. “Then I would have been culled prior to your arrival,” I said coolly. “His Honourable Tyranny suffers neither _fools_ nor failures.”

He still was smirking. He’d found the chink in my dragon hide, after all.

*           *           *

I WOULD say that I impressed His Honourable Tyranny with my dedication to finding a just verdict in spite of relative caste, but that would be something of a fallacy. Truth be told, I have a certain degree of freedom in my choice of which cases I pursue, it merely so happened that over the last half sweep or so a greater priority was given to those cases concerning members of the church.

I had yet to receive another personal visit, but I was hardly being ignored. No less than three laughssassins have been tracking my movements, and at my most recent interrogation the subject had been rendered a writhing mess who could only spout gibberish even more incomprehensible than the usual dribble of church rhetoric I have unfortunately become used to. He was screaming before I could even get near him, and he expired shortly afterwards, despite breaking free of his bonds in a feat of strength astounding even for a troll of his colour. Post-mortem examination revealed his heart had burst.

There were two curiosities of note. The first was his left fist, gripped tight around a broken chain. When I pried it open his hand was clasped tight around a pendant made of iron, in a most peculiar shape.

The mark was burned into his flesh, as though it had been heated to some unbearable temperature prior to his grasping it. I’ve kept it, rather than putting it with the evidence to be destroyed — I believe it may merit further investigation, particularly if it is connected to the reason he was psychically tortured to the point of a broken mind.

The second item of note was the back of his skull, where his hair had been shorn, and the Grand Highblood’s mark carved into the flesh deep enough for me to see the bone of his pan. I believe that means I have his attention. His church is full of lawbreakers, and he’s clearing house ahead of me.

I have decided to give it another two perigees—files concerning the church proper have been getting fewer — and see how he measures up. Or if he underestimates me once more.

In the meanwhile I shall investigate this sign further. Moirails are a good place to start, and this fool has an ex and a current listed in his pale quadrant. I wonder what caused the dissolution of his previous relationship?

*           *           *

_Challenge motherfucking accepted._

*           *           *

THE CHURCH is an institution that is deliberately built to inspire fear; tall and foreboding, with large stone clubs either side of the double doors, each one daubed with fresh, sacred, “paint”. Even with my recent experiences I could feel fear brewing in my gut. Eight perigees since my initial encounter with the Grand Highblood, six injunctions filed by him against me for “professional misconduct” (summarily dismissed, of course, though I’ve been under much closer supervision since the fourth), and nearly twenty ranking members of the church culled for crimes against the empire. I’ve been followed nearly everywhere I go, and all of my evidentiary journals have been read.

I walk a fine line with my bluffing in those, but they at least give me room to bluff, else I might find myself on the wrong end of a trial for my own heretical beliefs. The sign of the Sufferer — may his soul be granted the respite he strove for in life — hangs cold against my chest, even now, a constant reminder of what I choose to risk each and every night.

If the Highblood took my journals at face value, then he believes I wear it as a symbol of luck and success in my investigations against him, and that my investigations into the origins of the sign lead me nowhere. I near shudder to think what may have occurred had I not realised the extent of his spying and been faithful in my nightly recordings.

It was becoming difficult for me to find trolls willing to work on my cases these nights - apparently there is an unusually elevated rate of “contributory” culls by the church among those who have processed evidence for me. Fortunately I have long been accustomed to processing my own paperwork. I will not have anyone else culled in the name of this… burgeoning rivalry.

God. “Burgeoning rivalry” -- how old am I? I should be beyond this adolescent bullshit. Either he is tormenting me for the purpose of entertaining himself before culling me, or we are on the same page. Either I enter this building, never to leave again, or I am about to receive the pailing of my _life_. Even I cannot pretend oblivion to these kinds of unprofessional overtures. I think. There is of course, always a chance that I have drastically misinterpreted him. Doubt crawled into my mind, and I shunted it away forcefully. I took a deep breath to re-center myself before striding into the church. Walk straight, and act as though you own the place.

Either way, I’m fucked.

A self deprecating grin sat firmly in the centre of my face. The halls were disconcertingly empty, the only sounds around me being that of my feet, breath, and cane. Like hell was I going to walk in unarmed. The interior of the church was dark, but clean, nowhere near as dank as I was expecting, and there was a faint sweetness to the air, rather than the pervasive stench of rotting flesh and dried blood I had been anticipating.

There was a faint curve to the walls, just enough to be noticeable, but there were no cross wise corridors, or indeed, anywhere I need to make a choice to turn. I could feel my paranoia rising, though I suppose this is what my summons meant when it said that I would arrive where I needed to be without issue. The silence was all encompassing, almost physical in its presence.

I gave a mental nod of approval to whichever architect built this place. I know, logically, that there are hundreds of trolls in this building at any given point in time, yet I felt as though I were completely alone. The walk was long, though hardly arduous, and I barely noticed the slight downward sloping of the floor. It took me just less than half an hour before I was confronted with a door nearly three times my height; a crude drawing of stitched shut smile in faintly glowing purple over the center.

The door swung open before me, just before I could push at it with my fingertips, and I crossed my arms over my chest. The Grand Highblood smiled lazily at me, leaning back on his desk. An enormous juggling club, reaching so tall as to be level with his waist, was resting next to him, coated in a faint sheen of green.

“Neophyte,” he said, evenly, his tone normal. It was vaguely disconcerting, but his voice was neutral. His office was clean, with the exception of the faint smudges of blood on his club and now floor, and well-lit. The door slammed shut behind me, and I forced myself to remain calm, though my bloodpusher gave a start. He was smiling again, a small one, and his eyes flicked over me, brief, but discerning.

I ticked an eyebrow up above the rim of my glasses in return. “Highblood,” I said, trying to keep my own tone the same.

He reached over and returned his club to his specibus, and I did the same with my cane out of courtesy. Would he even need to have a weapon? Doubtful, to be perfectly honest. He had nearly a foot of height on me, and his limbs are wired with hard muscle. Not a troll to cross — and yet I set myself firmly in his sights. “You received my summons, I see,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest as if to mimic me.

“A statement such as that and I might assume you’ve got my eyewear,” I said dryly. “I’m here am I not?”

“Impertinent, little sister,” he said, his mouth twitching up into a smirk. “I haven’t… _inconvenienced_ a motherfucker, have I?”

“I’ll be sure to inform you, should I encounter one who fucks lusii,” I said, stepping further inside, into the danger zone of his reach.

He raised an eyebrow at me, his gaze following me steadily, somehow finding my eyes through the red blocked glasses. “You don’t already know one?” he asked me, feigning shock, with a hand to his mouth like an olive blood in distress. “And here I thought you were all up and informed on all matter of things.”

I took a deep, mental breath. Time to find out if I was here to die or not. “I don’t know, Kurloz, you seem to have a better opinion on this than I?”

In an instant I was pinned to the door behind me with a crash, one of his arms pressing into my throat in a way that told me my air was going to abruptly cut off if he so decided it. My mouth was dry and my eyes blown — not that I could see anything but his hair, smelling faintly of rancid meat as it pressed against my face — one of his legs pinning my pelvis a little awkwardly. His lips were pressed right up against my ear, his breath disturbingly cool as he said “ _Kurloz Makara died and I arose from his ashes_.” He pulled back from the wall, leaving me blinking furiously at the sudden re-entry of light to my field of vision, the arm against my jugular replaced by his hand, forcing my jaw upwards as he brought his face closer to mine, eyes matching. “Are you sure you want to cross this fucking line, _Latula_?”

The hand on my throat pulled back briefly and I took a deep, rattling breath that ached in my oesophagus, before answering in a rasp. “I don’t do anything I am not _fucking sure of_.” He sneered and pulled his other hand _out of the wall — oh fuck what have I gotten myself into_. He cupped my face roughly with hands that I now knew could leave distinguishable finger marks in _stone_ , and pressed his mouth to mine in an awkward clashing of teeth. I kissed back slowly, before leaving a quick nip of teeth in his lips to taste blood, and throwing all my weight into shoving off his unsteady leg at my hip.

The Highblood— _Kurloz—_ swore as I ducked and rolled underneath his legs, stopping myself at his desk and yanking myself up to meet his fists with a side-kick to his stomach. He grabbed my leg without even blinking and shoved me back onto his desk, my head slamming back with a thud that made my pan spin. He pulled me towards himself, hiking my legs up around his waist, and I sat up with an ease of practice hiding how much my eyes watered.

I scrabbled at his vest, prying my claws into seams and tugging, while he pulled at the collar of my own uniform. “I should have fired my underlings a perigee ago,” I panted, partially to myself, partially into the patch of skin I’d managed to uncover at his breastbone.

He growled and dragged his claws through my uniform scoring all the way down my side as he went, and I hissed furiously at the stinging pain of the light cuts. “Unfair stratagem,” he growled, pulling me against him so that I could feel his bloodpusher under his skin. “I can’t up and motherfucking fire heretics.”

I laughed and bit his neck, my fingers finally finding the clasps on his vest, and I pushed it off his shoulders eagerly. One of his hands remained a cool presence on my thigh just below my hip, the other prickling claws into my shoulder, and he leant down to press our mouths together once more. Teeth clacked against mine, making my spine shudder in minor revolt at the sensation. His mouth grinned against mine, and suddenly I was in the air, held against him by his strength alone.

I swore loudly and he laughed, throwing his head back. I pressed my teeth gently against his bared throat, barely drawing blood, as he held me uncomfortably tight, as though he were trying to fuse our persons together, carrying me into the next room. The door shut with an audible click of the lock, and he dropped me.

I yelped, startled for a second at the gut-wrenching sensation of falling, but the surface I landed on was soft, and I nearly blushed like a five sweep old when I realised I was on a pailing pile. His smirk as he looked down at me told me I had not necessarily been entirely successfully in hiding my embarrassment. To make up for it, I kicked out and knocked his legs out from underneath him.

There was something oddly like a cross between a growl and yelp as he stumbled and fell into the pile, colliding hard with my collarbone, and then I was the one making odd noises, my starting laughter mixing with my grunt of pain. The thrum of his chest against mine as he laughed at my pain was strangely comforting, and I dug my claws deep into his thigh in response.

This was quite possibly the strangest pitch encounter I’d ever had.

The Grand Highblood was apparently not a troll accustomed to waiting long to get what he wanted - he pulled the waist of my pants down easily with an less than careful claws. Not that I was aiming to hinder the endeavour in any way. The first touch of his hand to my bulge had me breathing in sharply, my fists knotting in his pants legs to tug them down to match mine.

With some strength of will I pulled my other hand away from my own body and put a concerted effort into yanking his pants off. At the same time I leaned up to clumsily start sucking bites into his chest, one of my legs twitching every time his hand moved in the fronds of my bulge. I got his pants most of the way down to his knees before giving up and sliding my hands back up his thighs. He growled when I bypassed his bulge entirely, the writhing purple tentacles twitching towards every place my fingers lingered, but I bit down on his chest, leaving a livid purple mark, and he sighed breathily in my ear when I carefully traced a claw tip around the outside of his nook.

He bit down hard on my ear and I yelled, my hand flying upwards immediately to press against the blood flow. He was still laughing as his hips jerked towards mine, our bulges entangling gleefully, the pleasure in the sensation a direct contrast to the sharp, throbbing pain in my ear. I swore loudly at him, dragging my claws into his torso as deep as I could, leaving him covered liberally in bloody scratches.

Through the muddle of sensations at my crotch, I felt his feeder tentacle prod my nook, searching to find the right sensation key to make it spill my portion of genetic slurry, and the way his breathing had slowed raggedly near my head, I could tell my own feeder tentacle was doing the same. My claws were flexing in the same place just under his ribs, and his teeth tugged erratically at the top of my ear, pain flaring intermittently.

“B-bucket, get the-” I ground out through clenched teeth.

“Fucking, bucket,” he panted hoarsely, strangely amuse-- _no_ , what kind of _asshole_ can make a pun while pailing.

There was a clang of a bucket dropping out of a sylladex, and I let my teal-knuckled grip on his torso ease long enough to pull my claws out and grab it, slamming him on the thigh with it when he didn’t move fast enough for me to position it. With the position we were in there was no way for the slurry to hit the bucket easily, and he picked me up bodily once more, repositioning us with the bucket cool against my thighs.

“Stop –- _fucking —_ troll-handling me, you, piece of, _shit_ ,” I said, squirming from the sensitivity wracking my body.

He threw his head back with laughter, the jerk of his hips apparently the key to help his tentacle hit the jackpot. I came with a gasp and a shudder, the sound of my genetic material hitting the bottom of the bucket painfully loud, and a writhing sensation made its way quickly up my spine, my eyes rolling back and my head tilting, my mouth forming a nigh perfect ‘o’ shape.

The fucker bit my throat, leaning in close to maul my neck lightly with his fangs, so fucking gentle, as my feeder tentacle went into overdrive trying to drag him over the edge so it could taste his own material. My bulge was starting to retract already, sated, though his was very unwilling to let it go, and I struggled to regain enough focus to fit my hand down between us and let a few tentacles slip through my fingers.

He growled again and I stretched my legs — which apparently did something, because he stiffened, and his nook opened, releasing his own genetic material into the mix. We sagged against each other for a moment, our hard breathing the only noise to break the silence.

Extrication and re-dressing took a while longer than strictly necessary, I suppose, filled with sniping and complaining — he had after all wrecked the only uniform I had on me, and for me to return to my office in my sylladexed sleep pants and a shift stolen from my moirail was highly irritating, while he had the privacy of his own stash. Before I left, however, he pushed me against the door and bit at my lips, a mashing of teeth so intense it _nearly_ made my tired bulge register interest again.

“Have a good motherfucking night, Neophyte,” he said, pushing the door open and giving me a smug smile. “May it be as pitch as the rest of your fine ass.”

I bowed, and when the door shut behind me, smeared some of my blood over the creepy stitched-shut grin.

 

**Author's Note:**

> A great thanks to my beta - fadedlikethelilac, who was a great help in hammering the dents out!


End file.
